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JUMBUES 



By 



Murdocb-Kerr Press 
Pittsburgh 






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I Two Couies Received 

IViAY 7 1906 






(Copyrightea 1905. by William Lord Reed) 






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•x*"?:^ 



Vr^HE majority of the verses in tkis vol- 
Vy ume appeared some years ago in the 
" Pittsburgh Dispatch" and are now reprinted 
and pushed on the long-suffering public by 
request. 

They are dedicated to any one possess- 
ing patience to read them. 

Respectfully, 

The Author 



CO/Nl^EyNi/ 



^*Ii i| it iptl'' 

Page. 

Violet Brown 15 

Grown-Up Folks 17 

Vice Versa 17 

Silas Simkins' Slelgih 18 

Criss-Cross 19 

Had I But Known 20 

"Williams" 21 

The Bohemian's Plaint 22 

Huckleberry Pie 23 

Since Baby Came 24 

Le Roi Est Mort ! Vive Le Roi ! 24 

Song of the Surgical Ward 25 

Weary Willie 25 

In the Park 25 

"Out Behind the Moon" 26 

An "O" Ode 26 

A Friend in Need ; 27 

The Milky Way 27 

When Bessie Dyed 28 

The Lost Chord 28 

Perplexing 28 

"Pork and " 29 

His Finish 30 

A Rondeau 30 

How're They Comin' With You ? 31 

A Gossip's Epitaph 32 

Retrospection 32 

But I'm Not 33 

'S Love 34 

If 35 

Mary's Lamb 35 

Willie's Rubaiyat 36 

"Listen to My Tale of Woe" 37 

The Bluff 37 

The Married Man's Opinion 38 



CoRtent^ 6or2tir2a0Gl 



Page. 

A Picnic Poc-mlet 41 

The World and a Woman 42 

A Wish 42 

A Toast 43 

Tilly's Hair 43 

And He Didn't 43 

Silence Gives Consent 43 

A Memory I Remember 44 

When Love is Dead 44 

Wanted— A Wife 45 

Golf — As Susie Plays It 45 

Marjorie Mine 46 

Fairest Flowers 46 

Love 47 

H I Should Die 48 

Persistence 48 

Where He Did It 49 

Break, Break — Broke ! 49 

Love's Awakening 49 

May — Expensive May 50 

To a Kentucky Belle 50 

The Maid and The Man 50 

Two Pairs of Eyes 51 

Her Crowning Glory 51 

That Old Coat Sleeve of Mine 52 

An Impression on an Old Coat S3 

In the Fall 53 

Love's Inventory 54 

The Winner 54 

Our Castles in Spain 55 

Only a Kiss 56 

Kisses 56 

At Duquesne Garden 57 

Somebody Loves Me 57 

A Reflection 58 

Th€ Lost Love 58 

Something About Her 59 

Then and Now 59 

When She Said "Yes" 60 

Tell Me Truly, Tilly 60 

How Gossip Goes 60 

10 



(jonbz'n^ Continued 



f mmwm^mm^ >> 



Page. 

Jes' Dreamin' 65 

Did You Ever Stop to Think? 66 

What's The Use? 67 

The End of the World 68 

Death's Harvest 68 

The Old, Old Days 69 

"What's the Use o* Anything? — Nothing". < 70 

Bubbles 71 

The Last Word 72 

Man's Wants 72 

An Old Coal Fire 73 

Did You? 74 

Let Us 74 

Perhaps 74 

The Old Mill Pond 75 

Predestination 76 

Christmas in the Heart 76 

The Length and Breadth 77 

Sufficient 77 



Trailing Arbutus 81 

The Soldier's Wife 82 

Love's Dwelling 83 

The Smile of a Mother 84 

Coward Joe • 85 

That Old-Fashioned Whistle 86 

Toys 87 

Gone! 88 

A Grave 88 

A Lullaby 89 

The Messenger 90 

To a Pair of Glad Eyes 90 

A New Year's Reverie 91 

The Man With the Light 91 

Lilies 'Round the Cross 92 

"Non Hodie, sed Semper" 93 

The Things I Used to Know 94 

Just a Word 95 

II 



"It (J to ^mAe/^ 



VIOLET BROWN. 

VIOLET BROWN, 
Of Taylorstown, 
Was an ebony "beaut." 
Of great renown 
When she married a man 

By the name of Black 
(Whose mouth looked like 

A funny crack), 
An' her name was Vi- 
O-let-Brown- Black. 

But Black he died 

One frosty night, 
An' the next on the list 

Was a dude named White- 
A hot tamale 

An' a shinin' light: 
Then her name was Vi- 

Let-Brown-Black- White. 

Now, White fell in 

The creek one day 
An' the angels bore 

His soul away; 
Then she married the parson, 

Whose name was Gray, 
An' became Violet 

Brown-Black- White-Gray. 

But Gray soon left 
For realms serene; 

An' the last on the list 
Was a coon called Green, 

Which changed the name 
Of this dusky queen 

To Violet Brown- 
Black-White-Gray-Green. 

Now, sad to say, 

Poor Green died, too, 
An' the 'riginal Vi- 

O-let grew blue, 
Her husbands were 

All laid below. 
An* she's livin' now 

In Yellow Row, 
With fourteen kids 

Of ev'ry kind. 
Whose names would drive 

You color blind. 



IS 



There's Black kids there 

Who are all brown; 
An' a lot o' little Green 

Kids runnin' 'roun', 
With a lot o' little black 

Kids who are White, 
An' Green kids just 

As black as night. 

It's the funniest fam- 

'Ly ever seen, 
For all of them 

Are slightly "green," 
Tho' off an' on 

They all get blue, 
The 'riginal shades 

Are still there, too — 
They're all fast colors. 

Every one, 
An' yet ain't warranted 

Not to run. 

Now all these imps 

Got fightin' like sin. 
An' the "Yellow Kid" 

Next door joined in; 
An' you'd thought that you 

Were full of dope 
If you'd seen that human 

Kaleidoscope. 

For the Gray beat the Green 

Kids black an' blue, 
An' the White and the Black 

Were bunged up, too; 
The Yellow Kid blacked 

A Gray kid's eye. 
I laughed till I thought 

That I would die. 

For the Yellow Kid now 

Was a purple hue, 
An' to make things worse 

Vi'let ran in, too. 
All their noses 

Were runnin' red. 
An' a Gray punched a Green 

Kid's little black head. 

Red, green, gray, 

Black, white, yellow, blue, 
All mixed in a bunch, 

An' I'm mixed, too. 
So if you guess 

What I'm writin' about, 
Telephone the answer. 

For my pipe's gone out. 



i6 



GROWN-UP FOLKS. 

GROWN-UP folks, it seems to me, 
Don't know nuffin'. 
'Er's lots of fings 'at 'ey could do 
'At's lots of fun for me an' you 
An' fings at 'ey are 'lowed to, too — 

But 'ey don't. 
Wisht I wuz a man; 
I'd show 'em. 

Grown-up folks kin al'ays do 

Jes as 'ey please — 
'Ey could sled-ride when it snows, 
Make mud pies in 'er Sunday clothes, 
'Er do mos' anyfing, I suppose — 

But 'ey don't, 
Wisht I wuz a man; 

I'd show 'em. 

Grown-up folks don' have any 

Fun at all. 
'Ey could play at hide-an'-seek, 
'Er go swimmin' in the creek. 
An' stay in, I guess, a week — 

But 'ey don't. 
Wisht I wuz a man; 

I'd show 'em. 

Grown-up folks don' have to do 

Any 'fing; 
Shoes 'ey doesn't have to wear, 
'Bout washin' 'er face don't have to care, 
An' never have to brush 'er hair — 

But 'ey do. 

Wisht I wuz a man; 

I'd show 'em. 



T 



VICE VERSA. 

HE ghoulish kissing-bug glided up 
with a shiny, crawly creep, 
And its cruel eye did my features 
spy 
As I swung in the hammock, asleep. 



A sinister smile lit its fiendish face 
As my cherry-red mouth it spied; 

'Twas a terrible slip when it kissed my 
lip, 
For the bug swelled up and died. 

17 



SILAS SIMPKINS' SLEIGH. 

THE snow 'ad been a slidin' down 
From early dawn 'till night; 
An' the earth was softly sleepin' 
'Neath a downy quilt of white. 
An' as you couldn't tell how long 

That snow was goin' to stay, 
I 'lowed 'at I'd take Mandy out 
In Silas Simkins' sleigh. 

Now, Silas Simkins had a sleigh 

'At he had bought in town, 
'At put into the shader 

All the sleds fer miles aroun'; 
A regular swell cutter — 

An' he'd promised, don't you see, 
'At when the first snow got here 

He 'ud lend the thing to me. 

So I rode down to Silas's, 

An' Silas he said "Yes"— 
I got her out an' in the shafts 

I harnessed up old Bess, 
Then drove over an' asked Mandy 

If she'd like to take a ride; 
An' soon was slidin' cross the snow 

With Mandy at my side. 

You see, there was a little thing 

I'd tried fer many a day 
To get nerve to tell to Mandy; 

An' I thought that in a sleigh 
I could kind o' get my courage up 

To offer the suggestion 
'At we ride together on thro' life — 

In fact, to pop the question. 

I drove for hours an' hours, 

Into regions most remote, 
Try in' jes' to swallow down 

The lump within my throat; 
An' it seemed to me we'd covered 

'Bout a thousand miles o' ground. 
When Mandy said as how she guessed 

We'd better turn around. 

I don' know how it happened. 

But in some peculiar way 
My arm got sort o' stretched along 

The back o' that there sleigh, 
An' Mandy said she 'lowed the wind 

Was gettin' kind o' colder. 
Then my arm it slipped 'round Mandy 
and 

Har head was on my shoulder. 



i8 



ThCTc was nothin' there but silence ' 

After that between oursel'es, 
An' my thoughts they seemed to mingle 

With the jingle o' the bells. 
I got to sort o' dreamin' of 

A lot o' things when — douse! 
We was both dumped in a snowdrift 

'Bout two miles apast the house. 

Well, durn it ! there my pipe's gone out — 

But down the stairs there comes 
The sweet strains of a lullaby 

*At Mandy softly hums 
To a bloomin' bunch o' baby 

'At arrived the other day — 
A kind o' "in memoriam" 

O' Silas Simkins' sleigh. 



CRISS-CROSS. 

THE football team I sing about 
Once tried a foxy trick. 
They practiced it until they 
thought 
That they could do it "slick." 
But when they tried it on, alas! 

It near broke up the game — 
And everybody seemed to think 
The right half was to blame. 

The left half back received the ball 

Then ran toward the right 
Half back, to whom he passed it. 

And he did it out o' sight; 
But the right half back was wrong — 

Just as a hole was cleft 
He lost his interference and 

The right half back was left. 

The wrong right half back, who was 
left, 

Then tried to start a fight, 
But the full back wouldn't have it. 

For the left half back was right — 
The left wrong right back left the field, 

And right back home did pull, 
Then told the folks they lost because 

The quarter back was full. 

19 



HAD I BUT KNOWN. 



"T TAD I but known." They're but 



I — I four little words, 



And yet how oft we find 
these words to be 
The knell of many a grand ambition 
lost, 
The anguished cry of fallen misery; 
From the chaos of despair we hear the 
moan — 
"Had I but known! Had I but 
known !" 

The happy boy, without a thought or 
care. 
His footsteps guided by a mother's 
love, 
Of whose self-sacrifice he little knows 
Until, when She's been called to 
realms above, 
He murmurs, as he treads life's way 
alone — 
"Had I but known! Had I but 
known !" 

And hoary age, with faltering step and 
head. 
Bent low beneath the cruel hand of 
time — 
He's made a failure of a human life 

His God created to be made sublime; 
Tottering to the grave we hear him 
groan — 
"Had I but known! Had I but 
known !" 

l'envoi. 

For the twenty-second time this has 
come back, 
Hereafter I'll let editors alone. 
I might have saved two dollars' worth 
of stamps — 
Had I but known ! Had I but known ! 



20 



WILLIAMS. 

WILLIAM is a name that's given 
Boy babies far and near, 
When screaming at the chris- 
tening, 
They're held by mothers dear; 
But you will find in after life. 
If Williams you should scan, 
The name abbreviated and 
The mirror of the man. 

Perhaps you'll find a "William" 

Quiet, dignified, sedate, 
Who'll look at you in a calm, sweet way, 

And your errors demonstrate. 
He treads unharmed life's primrose path, 

Nor looks for pleasure till 
He reaches heaven and you'll find 

He's generally called — "Will." 

But here's another "William," 

Who takes life as a joke. 
He's not too bad and not too good, 

And 'most generally always broke. 
Light-hearted, careless, happy. 

Whether paths are smooth or hilly, 
And as thro' life he floats along 

The whole world calls him — "Billy." 

And here we have a "William"; 

A sturdy man and true, 
With a ready hand to help a friend 

And a ready will to do. 
Rough-handed but warm-hearted; 

A man whose voice would still 
The passions of a frenzied mob. 

And his comrades call him — "Bill." 

Last, also least, of "Williams" 

Is the chap with the silken lid. 
Whose legs look like the running gears 

Of the talkative katy-did. 
With collar high and red necktie 

He walks and talks like a "gilly," 
With a lemon pie I could soak the guy 

Who goes by the name of — "Willie." 



21 



THE BOHEMIAN'S PLAINT. 

" T F I should die to-night" 
I And in my clothes 

"■■ Should be the goodly sum of 

Thirty cents, 

Left lying there 

Unspent, 

In sweet repose. 

I say! 

If I should die to-night 

And leave 

Behind me in these cold. 

Prosaic pants, 

The price of six large beers 

On draught, 

Unquaft 

By me and destined 

To remain 

Forever on the outside of 

My frame. 

If I should die, 

And from the great beyond 

Look back and see 

That thirty cents ta'en 

And spent foolishly 

For bread, 

Or clothes, 

Or some such empty thing; 

And those six beers — 

Long destined to be bought 

By me — 

Now spilled 

Down other throats, 

Their destiny 

Unfilled. 

I say! 

If I should die to-night 

And go 

From Here to There 

(Or where 

It doesn't snow) — 

And, looking back from there 

To here 

Behold 

Those six large beers, 

So large, and oh! — 

So cold. 

Go coursing down the throats- 

Of other 

Men — 

'Twould be so sad, 

For I would need them — 

Then. 



22 



HUCKLEBERRY PIE. 

(Courtesy of *' What to Eat.") 

SINCE we struck oil in Squabtown 
We've been about a few, 
An' livin' kind o' high, but I 
*L1 say right here to you, 
*At these new-fangled dishes 'at 

Ther swell 'otels ez got 
Somehow don't seem to me to jes' 
Exactly hit ther spot. 

Now this yere bill o' fare's, I guess, 

Considered purty fine — 
With cav-e-air an' pom-de-tare 

An' fancy kinds o' wine — 
But 'long about this time o' year. 

Ye know, I kind o' sigh 
Fer jes' a good old-fashioned slab 

O' huckleberry pie. 

Ye don't keer much about it? 

Well, I guess you never ate 
Ther kind o' pie 'at mother made 

Before we left the state 
O' comfortable poverty fer 

All this bloomin' wealth, 
An' started to get come-il-faut 

An' undermine our health. 

It didn't come in little strips — 

But great, big, juicy slices — 
An' many of 'em as ye pleased, 

With no regard to prices. 
It come about two inches thick — 

An' crust — gee whiz ! but my 
Mouth's waterin' fer a piece o' mother's 

Huckleberry pie. 

Jes' like the clover use' to smell's 

The way it use' to taste — 
Seems as I kin feel it now 

A-meltin' in my face — 
Talk about yer flyin' wedges ! 

Fill me up an' let me die 
Jes' full o' large, black, juicy chunks 

O' huckleberry pie. 



23 



SINCE BABY CAME. 

SINCE baby came, all cuddled in a 
heap 
Of swaddling clothes, and I took 
my first peep, 
The flowers have taken on a brighter 

hue; 
The sky, somehow, has been a bluer 
blue. 
And birds a chant triumphant seem to 
keep. 

From out the bottom of my heart, so 

deep, 
Tumultuous joy doth ever upward leap 
Each time I hear a softly murmured 
"Goo"— 

Since baby came. 

But tho' a papa's pleasures I now reap, 
And bachelors' blighted prospects make 
me weep, 
There's just one thing I will admit to 

you — 
(Remember that it's strictly "entre 
nous") — 
I've only had about two hours' sleep 
Since baby came. 



LE ROI EST MORT! 
VIVE LE ROI! 

** II yf Y house is my castle," I used to 

/yl sing, 

* ' -* And there I royally reigned 
In supreme command of everything, 
A regular regal kind of king — 

Unbridled and unrestrained. 

My castle and kingdom are lost to me — 

My crown's on another's head; 

And I, perforce, must bend the knee 

In servitude to the "powers that be,'* 

To the tyrant who rules instead. 

Sans crown, sans scepter, I softly sing. 

And naught can my peace annoy; 
Though I don't amount to "any old 

thing," 
I, smiling, salaam to His Nobs, the 
King— 
A twelve-pound baby boy. 

24 



SONG OF THE SURGICAL WARD. 

(By a Victim.) 

SO the clinic room they run you on 
a stretcher. 
And they lay you on a lovely 
marble slab; 
They waft you to the dopey land of no- 
where, 
Then your manly form begin to cut 
and jab. 

They carve your lovely carcass with a 
scalpel, 
They slit you down the spinal with a 
lance, 
While they softly sing this merry little 
chorus, 
The pleasure of the nurses to en- 
hance : 



"Oh, Blood! Blood! Blood! 

Red and juicy and raw; 
Blood! Blood! Blood! 

As we carve and slash and saw. 
For you're only a bloomin' patient, 

And your name is simply Mud; 
Oh ! it's ho ! for the life 
Of the scalpel and knife 

And Blood! Blood! Blood!" 



WEARY WILLIE. 

N the morning I hate to get up 
And get all dressed, for then 
I have to eat my meals an' just 
Go back to bed again. 



IN THE PARK. 

STANDING here amid the beauties, 
Spread by Nature's bounteous 
hand, 
Under the blue arch of heaven, 

I can feel my soul expand; 
Though in rags, I'm yet a monarch — 

Monarch of all I survey — 
Summer, robed in verdant raiment, 
Doth her annual homage pay. 
Here I'm brought to earth, alas, 
By — "Come, move on! Git off der 
grass!" 

25 



"OUT BEHIND THE MOON." 

(To the Boys of Indiana.) 

SINCE poets have long of Arcady 
sung, 
Where blossoms the asphodel, 
And have let their Pegasus wander free 
Thro' Elysian field and dell; 
Why shouldn't I, an embryo bard. 
Warble in ecstacy here 
Of the nearest place to Eden 
I've found on this bleak old sphere. 
A Sylvan spot where care's forgot 
And laughter and life are atune, 
Where sorrow is drowned in the clink 

passed round — 
Out behind the moon. 



Deep in the depths of a mighty wood, 
By the banks of a rippling stream, 
In the heart of God's own country 
Where the world seems a turbulent 

dream. 
Gathered 'round the fountain of life, 
Draining from joy the dregs, 
Satyrs in their shirt sleeves sit 
Drinking dew drops from beer kegs. 
Where the frog sings low his "Kunk- 

Chlunk" 
And the tree toads softly croon, 
Where the booze-tree grows by the brier 

rose — 
Out behind the moon. 



AN "O" ODE. 

(At Night.) 

It*s O for the wine 
While it sparkles — 
It's O for a "bot" 
And a bird — 
It's O for a hack 

Or a hansom — 
For "laughter and song" 
Is the word. 

(The Next Morning.) 
It's owe for the wine 

That's a mem'ry — 
It's owe for the bird 

And the "bot" ; 
It's owe for the carriage 

And owe for it all — 
And, oh! what a head 

We have got. 

26 



A FRIEND IN NEED. 



««*'T^IS hard to be poor," sighed the 
artist, 
"Ah ! 'tis hard to be poor," sighed 
he. 
That's all right," said his sketch pad. 
If you're busted, old man, draw on 
me." 



T 



THE MILKY WAY. 

HEY diddle diddle, 
The cat and the fiddle, 
The cow jumped over the 
moon" — 
Is an ancient rhyme 
Of ye olden time 
With our nursery days atune. 

But explain, if you can. 
To an ignorant man, 

And answer a question, pray. 
That's got me humped — 
When that old cow jumped 

Did she jump in the milky-way? 

27 



WHEN BESSIE DYED. 

(With Apologies to James Whitcomb 
Riley.) 

WHEN Bessie died— 
They braided the brown hair, 
and tied 
It back — they drew the blinds aside and 
cried — 

When Bessie died. 
But we — 
When Bessie dyed 

We gazed at the blonde hair, and tried 
To notice nothing and to hide 
Our feelings. But we turned aside 
Our faces from the light, and cried, 
"Oh, peroxide"— 

When Bessie dyed. 



THE LOST CHORD. 



THE house seems lonely and empty; 
Seems ever so strangely still; 
In our hearts there's a void that 
is aching — 
A void that no voice can fill. 

The whispered word that is spoken 
Seems only the ghost of a sound, 

For which we are each of us yearning, 
With only the silence around. 

From our lives all the music's departed. 
All harmony's gone since the day 

The installment collector called on us 
And took the piano away. 



W 



PERPLEXING. 

HEN the little bill collector 
Chaseth up his little bill, 
If I only happen to be out 
I'm in my money still. 



But if I happen to be in 
When he appears about, 

I have to loosen up and pay 
The money — so I'm out. 

So now my trolley's twisted, 
For you see, beyond a doubt, 

If I happen to be out — I'm in, 
And if I'm in — I'm out. 

28 



"PORK AND ** 

YER can't gi' me no con about yer 
layouts "alley cart," 
Fer when it comes to feedin*, why 
de grub dat plays de part 
Wid me is plain old "pork and beans," 

a comin' quick an' hot — 
I tell ye, cull, dat certainly's de stuff 
dat hits de spot. 
Jes' drift into a hash-house where de 

don't tro' on no lugs — 
Der ain't nobody barred at all but busted 
bums and bugs — 
Get up on a stool an' tell de gent dat 

runs de place 
"If he'll chase along some pork and 
beans ye think ye'U feed your 
face." 
Den he'll holler in de lingo dat de cook 

'11 understand 
Yer order trou' de wall-hole — and it's 
jes — "pork and — " 

De bring it to you all piled up, a regular 

dopey dome, 
An' ye smear it all wid ketchup 'at at 'ud 

make you leave yer home. 
Ye can eat it any way ye want — de 

best way's wid a knife, 
So's ye kin chuck it quicker, an' say, 

cull, on your life, 
I ain't jes' a-chinnin'; and if ye need a 

meal 
Why stick to pork and beans an' get a 

pat hand every deal. 
An' if ye find ye're broke and got a 

loidy on yer staff, 
Jes' fill her up on beans — why, cull, ye 

certainly 'ud laugh 
To hear me Lizzy whisper — "Say, mebe 

dis ain't grand!" — 
When de guy dat pushes pies jes' hollers 

out — "pork and — " 



29 



HIS FINISH. 

HE was a fiery Frenchman, 
With an awful thirst for gore; 
Of those horrible French duels 
He had fought at least a score. 
He had started revolutions, 

'Til he found the sport grew tame; 
But he fainted dead away the day 
He saw a football game. 



A RONDEAU. 

JES' lyin' here, with nothin' else to do 
But watch the clouds a slidin' 
'cross the blue 
Soft sky o' summer, what's the use o' 

June, 
When everything in nature seems 
atune ? 
'Cept to be here an' day dream fancies 
woo. 

'Crost the meadows comes the dove's 

soft coo. 
The sweet scent o' the clover's driftin* 
through 
The daisies, as I doze from morn 'til 
noon 

Jes' lyin' here. 

As summer poetry that, I hope, will do; 
It's zero weather and the snow drifts 
through 
My attic window; but it's none too 

soon 
On magazines to spring your poems 
of June. 
So for the shekels I am (sad but true) 
Jes' lyin' here. 



30 



HOW'RE THEY COMIN' WITH 
YOU? 

I STARTED 'round, the other day, 
To satisfy myself 
How fast the general public 
Was accumulating wealth. 
Each individual I met 

I interviewed, you see, 
And now I'll try and tell to you 
What some of them told to me. 

A shoemaker said he was "pegging 
away," 

A lawyer was "lying low," 
A doctor was making his money 

"Dead easy" — ^he told me so. 
A butcher managed to "make ends 
^ meat," 

The iceman had "struck a frost," 
A plumber I met was "hitting the pipe" — 

Poor fellow, I guess he's lost. 

A pickpocket was "taking things easy," 

While a baker was "loafing all day"; 
A grocer told me in confidence, 

"Things were going his weigh." 
A dentist was "living from hand to 
mouth," 

And here, just to make a rhyme, 
I'll have to ring in the jeweler. 

Who was working "over time." 

A burglar said "things were picking up," 

But he had to work at night ; 
And even a poor blind beggar said 

He was "doing out o' sight." 
An ossified man was having 

An awful "hard time," he said, 
While an undertaker told me 

He was "doing quite well — on the 
dead." 

A prima donna, who warbles, 

Said "life went by like a song" ; 
But a little soubrette I casually met 

Was "barely getting along." 
An oil producer told me 

He "managed to get a long well," 
While a Hebrew merchant mentioned 

He had "clothing to burn or sell." 



31 



I asked a spiritualist how things were, 

"Just medium," he replied; 
A barber said he was "scraping along," 

And then curled up and died. 
A furrier "ran a skin game," 

A jockey was "on the go," 
But it turned my head when a dress- 
maker said 

She was doing "sew and sew." 



A GOSSIP'S EPITAPH. 

SHE talked of her neighbors. 
She talked of her friends, 
She talked of their "doings" ; 
Predicted their ends. 

And now that she's dead 
I'm perplexed, I avow. 

As to just who in Hades 
She talks about now. 



RETROSPECTION. 

(REMEMBER, I remember, 
De house where I wuz bom, 
Where, on de quiet my father 
Distilled moonshine from de com. 
I wuz in childish ignorance 

And now 'tis little joy. 
To know I'm furder off from heaven 
Dan when I wuz a boy. 



32 



BUT I'M NOT. 

IF I were a poet with burning thoughts 
To spring on the public in gilt- 
bound lots, 
I'd warble a strain whose strident 

tones 
Would ring from the Torrid and 
Frigid zones — 
Kipling would look like last year's 

snow 
And Markham resemble the man with 
the hoe. 
I'd only write when the spirit steals 
O'er me and not for the price of my 
meals — 
Oh! the world would be an Arcadian 

spot 
If I were a poet, you know — 

But I'm not. 

If I were a Croesus with bonds and 

stocks 
And country places and brown-stone 
blocks, 
I'd drive fast horses and own a yacht 
And give away organs and gawd 
knows what — 
I'd smoke cigars at a dollar per 
And hire a valet to call me "Sir" — 
I'd drink champagne with every meal 
And rumble around in an automo- 
bile— 
Oh ! I'd be a sport who was right on the 

spot — 
If I were a Croesus, you know — 

But I'm not. 

If I were an>i;hing you can see 
What a marked improvement the change 
would be. 
If I were a doctor — even a "horse"— » 
I'd get my meals as a matter of 
course — 
If I were the ice man or just a "judge," 
Or a ladies' tailor, perhaps — "oh fudge!" 
Or only a plain bank president, 
'Twould remove my worry about the 
rent — 
Yes, 'twould be a most excellent change, 

I wat, 
If I were any old thing— 

But I'm not. 



33 



If I were worrying, you perceive, 
My life would be a continual grieve; 
But too many troubles I've already 

got 
To worry about the things I am not, 
For worry you'll find a most excellent 

salve 
If you're not what you want is to want 
what you have 
You're lucky or you would have long 

ago died — 
If you'd like to be happy be just sat- 
isfied — 
For mine would indeed be a horrible lot 
If I were worrying — See? — 

But I'm not. 



'S LOVE. 

LOVE? Ye got me guessin' now 
Can't explain the "why" nor 
"how"— 
Kind o' puzzlin', I allow 

's love. 

Figure out a lot o' truck 

'Bout a fortune — fortune's luck — 

Find you're kind o' daffy struck — 

's love. 

Git your ideas o' the girl 
'S to be your priceless pearl — 
Find you're bloomin' head's a-whirl — 

's love. 



Jes' a girl — don't matter who, 
Jes' so she's the girl for you 
And your figurin' is though — 



's love. 



Jes' a girl and jes' a way 

'At she's got an' it's all day 

With everything — ^you'll only say — 

"'s love." 

Love — Well now, I can't jes' size it 
Up — don't worry, you'll get wise, it 
Won't git by — ^you'll recognize it — 

's love. 

34 



IF. 



OH wouldn't the world be a jolly old 
place 
If nobody needed food — 
If nobody had any use for clothes 
Yet nobody ever was nude? 

If nobody ever had to get up 

At the dawn of the morning light — 
If nobody ever went to bed 

Because nobody slept at night? 

If nobody ever had worries or cares 
And nobody ever was sad — 

If nobody ever was too dashed good 
And nobody ever was bad? 

If nobody talked about other's affairs 
Because nobody cared a curse — 

If nobody ever got sick again 
And nobody ever got worse? 

If nobody knew the way to read 
And nobody tried to write — 

If nobody ever drank water, 
Yet nobody ever got tight? 

If nobody needed money 

Nor had to work and' sigh — 

If we all had nothing to do but live — 
And nobody had to die? 



MARY'S LAMB. 

MARY had a little lamb, 
He was her little beau, 
And everywhere that Mary went 
The lamb put up the dough. 

He followed up a little tip, 
To Wall street he did roam; 

*Twas there they fleeced this little laml>— 
Now Mary stays at home. 

35 



WILLIE'S RUBAIYAT. 

" T DON'T know what the trouble is," 

I I often tried to guess; 

■■• Somehow I never seem to 'zackly 

Fit in with the rest. 
There's al'ays one left over. 

An' I could never see 
How it happens 'at the one's 

Most generally al'ays me. 

iWhen company'd come to supper, 

W'y 'en Ma 'ud kind 'o sigh 
An' say, "Now, Willie, dear, you 

Never did care much for pie. 
An, as it won't go all way 'round. 

Eat lots o' bread and jam, 
Nen, when it comes your turn for pie 

Jes' say, "No, thank you, ma'am." 

An' nen at school it al'ays seemed 

'At trouble came my way; 
The teacher he 'ud jump on me 

For nuthin' every day. 
An' he'd get mad an' call me dunce 

An' a blockheaded fool, 
Nen usually he'd keep me in 

An' lick me after school. 

Nen one afternoon he said 

He knew I understood 
As how he couldn't whip the girls, 

Tho' it 'ud do 'em good; 
*At they made him so ravin' mad 

'At he 'ud have a fit 
'Less he worked it off on some one, 

An — I was used to it. 

An' when Thanksgivin' comes around, 

An' all our kith an' kin 
Have a family reunion an' 

Stuff pie an' turkey in 
'Emselves until they almos' bust, 

There's room fer all but one, 
'En father he says "William won't 

Mind waitin' 'til we're done." 

I guess if I 'ud die an' go 

To heaven right away, 
St. Peter 'd peep out thro' the gate 

An' see it's me 'en say — 
"I'm awful sorry, Willie, we're 

So crowded, but I know 
You won't mind waitin' round outside 

Fer a thousand years or so." 



36 



I guess 'at I 'uz born too soon, 

Or else not soon enough, 
Fer somehow I don't seem to fit, 

An' you can bet it's tough; 
So I'm goin' to join a circus 

Or be a soldier an' get hit, 
Fer I'm tired o' playin' in a game 

An' al'ays bein' "it." 



"LISTEN TO MY TALE OF WOE." 



A BUNCH of islands in an ocean 
grew— 
Listen to our tale of woe; 
A bunch of islands of yellow hue, 
Owned by Spain and over-due 
They grew, 
'Tis true — 
Listen to our tale of woe. 

As Dewey was sailing the ocean 
through — 

Listen to our tale of woe ; 
He spied those islands of yellow hue, 
For Uncle Samuel he grabbed a few, 

The few 

In view — 

Listen to our tale of woe. 

Now Uncle Sam to the game was new — 

Listen to our tale of woe; 
He bit off the bunch and swallowed the 

chew 
And then the trouble began to brew — 

Too true ! 

Boo hoo ! 

Listen to our tale of woe. 

'Tis a trouble you doctors can't subdue— 

Listen to our tale of woe — 
So, Uncle, let us prescribe for you; 
Take an emetic and you'll pull through— 

That's true! 

So do! 

Listen to our tale of woe. 



T 



THE BLUFF. 

HE boy stood on a little pair — 
Stood pat. When all had fled 
He pocketed the pot and quit — 
Just twenty plunks ahead. 

37 



THE MARRIED MAN'S OPINION. 

WHEN it comes to female furnish- 
ing — frocks — furbelows 
and such — 
You'll find no one upon this transient 
orb knows half as much 
As to what looks best and prettiest up- 
on a woman than 
The poor down-trodden, over-ridden, 
sat-on married man. 

He doesn't care for "gew-gaws" — • 

"they're so vulgar, don't you 

know" — 

"Look just like a Christmas tree," or 

"you're a holy show" — 

He certainly is strenuous about the 

quiet and chaste — 
As for diamonds? You know dia- 
monds show excruciating taste. 

And when it comes to gowns? He 

knows what looks the best — 
The worst — the worst, of course, is 
"looking over-dressed" — 
To one old worn-out, passed-around, 

worm-eaten gag he clings — 
"You know, dear, you look sweetest 
in those simple little things." 

And hats? Well, that's so easy it's a 

shame to ring it in — 
"The profit made b}^ milliners is cer- 
tainly a sin" — 
No "Parisian creations" ever worn by 

dames of wealth 
Can be compared a minute with the 
ones she makes herself. 

At last, to cap the climax most sincerely 

he'll declare 
He never notices at all what other wo- 
men wear — 
And he wouldn't either, you can bet 

your bloomin' life — 
If other women dressed the way he'd 
like to dress his wife. 



38 



"llZy La^^ye Fa(Ve" 



A PICNIC POEMLET. 

(Courtesy of "What to Eat.") 

I have dined at Del's and Sherry's and 
at many a table d'hote — 
In French "cafes" and Chinese 
"joints" I've tantalized my 
throat — 
I have dallied with a bird petite and 

cracked a bottle cold — 
Run the gamut from "Martini's" to the 

Brie bedecked with mould; 
But the daintiest repast I've ever stowed 

away within 
Were some large and luscious olives 
off a 

Long 
Hat 
Pin. 

Gather round, ye sated gourmands, with 

the jaded appetites — 
I'll disclose to you the cream of gastro- 

nomical delights ; 
Try it and you'll all declare it simply is 

immense, 
And your wildest epicurean dreams will 

look like "thirty cents;" 
Just get a dainty maiden, with a dimple 

in her chin. 
To sit and feed you olives off a 
Long 
Hat 
Pin. 

Perhaps you don't like olives? — ^I don't 

either — never mind, 
Just try my little process and I'll guar- 
antee you'll find 
A sweet, salubrious feeling to your 

thought-dome swiftly mounts. 
And the girl that does the feeding is the 

only thing that counts ; 
Oh! that I might drift to Dreamland 

from this sordid world of sin, 
While "my baby" feeds me olives off a 
Long 
Hat 
Pin. 



41 



THE WORLD AND A WOMAN. 



HOW alike are the world and a wo- 
man — 
If a man but comprehends — 
The poles of the world are in mystery 
furled, 
And so are a woman's ends. 

The world thro' the universe circles 
In its flight on its orbit true; 

A woman calls 'round in her "circle," 
And is more or less flighty, too. 

A man gives his all for a woman, 
And her lip's in derision curled — 

The world gives but shabby treatment 
When a man gives up all for the 
world. 

But the man who laughs at its trials 
Will never have lived in vain — 

And a woman will shower her favors 
Where treated with most disdain. 

The world is a cruel master, 

While a woman's a tyrant, too — 

Yet both are supreme in their beauty 
When the skies and the eyes are blue. 

The world awakes in its glory 
When the sun thro' the gloom ap- 
pears — 
A woman's sublime in her sorrow, 
Who can smile on the world thro* 
tears. 

Yes, to me the world and a woman 

Will ever synonymous be — 
For my world's in the e5^es of a woman, 

And' a woman's the world to me. 



A WISH. 

OH ! for a tiny barque 
Upon an ocean blue; 
This, cold, prosaic world behind- 
Alone, sweetheart, with you 
Upon a sea of happiness — 

Without a thought but love. 
The waters grand on either hand. 

The star-strewn sky above; 
With Cupid for our helmsman 

We'd sail away together, 
You and I, and Love, fond heart. 
Forever and forever. 

42 



A TOAST. 

HERE'S to the girl with midnight 
eyes 
And hair of raven hue! 
To the girl with the quivering lash and 
lips 
And eyes of deep, deep blue ! 

Here's to the girl divinely fair; 

To the girl so "Queenly tall!" 
Here's to the girl with Titian hair — 

But here's to the dearest of all — 

To the girl of girls ! the girl who shines 
O'er my soul like the sun above; 

Come, drink with me all ! — 

The best girl in the world — 
The girl that loves me — that I love! 



T 



TILLY'S HAIR. 

ILLY'S hair bewilders me 

With its tints of gleaming gold 
Banked up in a glorious mass — 
Back and front and fold on fold. 



Just why it bewilders me 

I don't suppose you really care; 

But how much of it's "rats" and things, 
And how much of it's — Tilly's hair? 



AND HE DIDN'T. 

SHY and blushing maiden — 
Sprig of mistletoe. 
He caught her right beneath it; 
Course she didn't know. 
But when he went to kiss her 

She angrily cried "Don't! 
Stop, sir!" — and he acquiesced 
And promptly said, "I won't." 



SILENCE GIVES CONSENT. 

HE asked her what she'd do 
If he stole a kiss, 
Sub rosa. 
She answered not — so he purloined 
A bunch of them — 
Sub nosa. 

43 



A MEMORY I REMEMBER. 

TOGETHER we sat on the seat 
where we sat. 
As we sat on the winding stair; 
And lovingly held in our hands the 
hands 
Our hands were holding there. 
While I looked in her eyes with a look 
that looked 
In the look she looked in mine, 
And the feeling we felt was a feeling 
you've felt. 
And perhaps divine was divine. 

A silent stillness silently stole 

O'er our soulfully silent souls. 
And her slim waist there on the wind- 
ing stair 

My winding arm enfolds. 
She breathed her breath in a breathless 
breathe. 

And sighed a sigh on the side, 
While o'er my being glidingly glided 

A most beatific glide. 



She snuggled up to me snugger 

Than she'd ever snugged before; 
And a wonderful wonder wandered 

My wandering sense o'er — 
To think that I, myself — that's me — 

Ego, we us and Co. 
Had won the one love of this lovely 
girl, 

Who lovingly loved me so. 

And sitting there on the seat where we 
sat, 
We might have been sitting yet, 
Yet we aren't, and the cause is just be- 
cause 
We were just sitting out the set. 



WHEN LOVE IS DEAD. 

WHEN love is dead this world 
will be a dark and dreary 
place ; 
When love is dead we'll seldom see a 

smile on human face. 
Sunshine then will never fall across 

life's weary way — 
While musing thus a voice I hear and 

some one seems to say; 
"When love is dead — ah, mortal, know 
That what you dread will ne'er be so; 
Tho' tears are shed, yet do not sigh — 
For love, true love, can never die." 

44 



WANTED— A WIFE. 

I'M looking for a maiden, 
She must be slim, petite, 
With wee, aristocratic hands 
And dainty little feet. 

A brow like alabaster — crowned 

With hair of reddish gold, 
A figure — just a little plump — 

About on Phryne's mold. 

Her eyes must be that liquid brown 

The poets rave about — 
Her mouth a dainty rosebud 

That's ne'er been known to pout. 

Her nose — a little, classic one, 
And eyebrows black as night — 

Her neck like chiseled ivory, 
Her shoulders snowy white. 

She must be bright and witty and 

With every grace endowed. 
Her disposition must be sweet 

And not the least bit proud. 

And then, as poets sometimes eat — 

I must insist, I fear, 
That she have — in her own name, too — 

Ten thousand plunks a year. 

Now, gentle reader, if you fill 

The bill — don't hesitate 
To ship yourself at once to me — 

"Yours truly" pays the freight. 



GOLF— AS SUSIE PLAYS IT. 

1DINNA ken so very much about the 
game of golf — 
And, what is more, I ken I dinna 
care; 
For the difference 'twixt a "stymie" 

and a "foozle" or a "cleek" 
Is a problem that I can't get thro' my 
hair. 

Yet, 'round the links I wander in a 

dreamy sort of way, 
And each time She swings her "brassy" 

I applaud, 
For I know no joy that's keener nor 

sensation that's serener 
Than simply watching Susie soak the 

sod. 

45 



MARJORIE MINE. 

MARJORIE MINE"— 
I am sitting to-night 
'Neath the summer moon's soft 
glow, 
Living again in Dreamland, love, 

An evening of long ago, 
When we sat in the deepening twilight 

And I laid my all at your shrine — 

You whispered "Yes," a tender caress; 

Then I named you Marjorie Mine. 

Oh! the years have been long and 
weary, love. 
Since that night in the dim Faraway, 
And Time has bended me low. Sweet- 
heart, 
And sprinkled my hair with gray; 
I am nearing the end of the journey 
now; 
But, through all, I have always been 
thine, 
And you, tho' you left me alone, long 
ago. 
Have always been 

"Marjorie Mine." 



FAIREST FLOWERS. 

(A Commencement Ode.) 

THE fairest flowers in the world! 
Do'st know them, reader mine? 
Can'st tell the fairest blossoms 

That this bleak old world intwine? 
Roses, did you say? Nay! Nay! 

The pansy's knowing face? 
Beautiful chrysanthemums, 

That swing with stately grace? 
The dainty daisy, turning 

Its face toward the sun? 
Sweetly scented violets? — 

The list is but begun. 
But no! though all are passing fair, 

'Tis not of these I sing; 
Nor of arbutus — flow'rets 

That among the mosses cling; 
Nor yet_ the tiger lily, as 

Its Titian wealth unfurls — 
But of the fairest flowers of all — 

A bunch of college girls. 



LOVE. 

WHAT is love? Now, that's the 
question 
Disarranges the digestion 
Of about a milHon mortals, more or less. 
The}^ know all about astronomy, 
Political economy, 
But when they tackle Love — ^they've got 
to guess. 

Now of love I've made a study, 
And I challenge everybody 
Who about it think they know a thing 
or two. 
To start their brains a twirling 
And their wisdom wheels a whirling, 
Then get up and try to tell me some- 
thing new. 

Love is not a little boy — 
Nor an everlasting joy, 
Nor like anything on earth or heaven 
above — 
It's a queer, fantastic feeling 
Oe'r your system softly stealing, 
And you blame it on your liver — ^but it's 
love. 

Just because a maiden fair 
Lays her head of Titian hair. 
With a gentle sigh, upon your manly 
heart. 
You suddenly grow spooney. 
Also just a trifle looney, 
And swear that from her side you'll 
never part. 

Then you nestle up together, 
And you softly ask her whether 

She's "oor 'ittle 'ucky ducky," don't 
you know — 
An' you never hear her pop 
'Till on you he's got the drop. 

And out into the street you quickly go. 

You are picked up in a trance, 
Taken in an ambulance, 
And in place your broken bones the doc- 
tors shove. 
With a face that's badly battered, 
And a collar bone that's shattered 
You can bet your bottom dollar that is 
love — 
You can bet your bottom dollar 
That is love. 



47 



IF I SHOULD DIE. 

**TF I should die to-night" and deep, 
I so deep 

* Beneath the cold, gray sod be laid 
to sleep, 
Perhaps when I became as earth to 

earth 
Some few might wake to recognize 
my worth, 
Or might recall some kindly act — and 
weep— 

If I should die? 

But tho' hot tears were shed and flowers 

strewn 'round 
My waxen face and heaped upon my 
mound ; 
Tho' the wide world should ring with 

long acclaim, 
Sounding post-mortem glory 'round 
my name, 
I'd lie unheeding there within the 
ground — 

If I should die? 

But if, fond heart, beneath the starlit 

skies. 
You came and knelt beside the grave 
where lies 
My poor, cold corpse, and on it drop- 
ped a tear, 
'Twould quicken into life the mould- 
'ring clay 
And I should wake to find my Par- 
adise — 

If I should die? 



PERSISTENCE. 

JUST a score of faded letters, 
Breathing tender words and 
true- 
But what memories they awaken 

As once more I read them through: 
There was Gladys, little darling. 

Dainty Sue, Louise, sedate — 
Penelope, who seemed so shy — 
Margo, Ann and lovely Kate; 
They're all married now, and I — 
Well— 
I'm looking out for Number Eight. 



D 



WHERE HE DID IT. 

EAR little Dora, 

Dimpled and fair. 
Under the mistletoe, 
Standing there. 



No one was near. 
No one could see — 

In a moment he grasped the op- 
portunity. 

Under the mistletoe, 

Under the rose — 
Under the mistletoe, 

Under the nose. 



BREAK, BREAK— BROKE! 



B 



REAK, break, break. 

On thy cold, gray stones, 
O sea," 

As I sit o nthe beach with the 
lovely girl 
Who has promised to marry me. 
******* 

Two happy weeks together — 

What a future of bliss we planned — 
Then she went home and I realized 

The "touch" of that vanished hand. 

Broke, broke, broke. 

At the foot of thy crags, O sea, 
And the beautiful ''roll" I had when I 
came 

Will never come back to me. 



LOVE'S AWAKENING. 

THOUGHT that Love was dead 

And laid to rest 
Upon his downy couch 

Within my breast. 
Slain by a quivering arrow 

From the bow 
Of one I thought I loved: — 

I did not know 
That Love, whom I thought dead, 

Was but asleep, 
And resting from his cares 

In slumber deep — 
Until you came and to him 

Sleeping, spoke. 
Then at your gentle bidding — 

Love awoke. 

49 



MAY— EXPENSIVE MAY. 

MAY usually meanders here 
About the first of May, 
And now a pretty time of year 
Of May to sing a lay; 
But the May I'm thinking of 

(Tho' a much warmer member 

Than any other May I've struck) 

Didn't strike me 'till December. 

May's the month of all the year 

That poets love to sing of; 
Month of all other months more dear 

To them — and quite a string of 
Poetry I could warble, too, 

For naught to me is clearer. 
That, dear as May may be to them, 

Still May to me is dearer. 



TO A KENTUCKY BELLE. 

AS the gentle breeze of summer stirs 
the leaves upon the trees, 
And they seem to murmur in 
complete content; 
As wafted zephyrs softly play upon 

aeolian strings 
'Til they harmonize in sweet abandon- 
ment — 
So from the discords of my life angelic 

music springs 
And bears my weary soul aloft upon its 

widespread wings — 
'Tis just the softest touch on my heart's 

responsive strings — 
Of a breath from the blue grass of Ken- 
tucky. 



THE MAID AND THE MAN. 



w 



HERE are you going, my pretty 

maid ?" 
"I'm going a berrying, sir," she 

said. 



**Where do you berry, my pretty maid?" 
"In the cemetery, you yap," she said. 

"May I go with you, my pretty maid?" 
"It's none of your funeral, sir," she said. 

SO 



TWO PAIRS OF EYES. 

(With apology to James Whitcomb 
Riley.) 

OH ! two beautiful eyes of a sky- 
tinted blue, 
Reflecting a soul, saintly pure, 
shining through — 
Two beautiful eyes that gleam out like 

the sun. 
Dispelling the gloom when the long 

night is done — 
Have shed their soft glow o'er my heart, 

bleak and bare, 
And scattered the shadows long linger- 
ing there, 
Up out of life's discords sweet sympho- 
nies rise 
As I stand in the light of two beautiful 
eyes. 

Oh! two glorious eyes, black — black as 

the night. 
As they darkly shine out 'neath a brow 

snowy white. 
Thro' lauguorous lids they have looked 

into mine 
And my senses are drugged in the 

potion divine; 
Drunk with their beauty I reel, slip and 

fall. 
And in' their dark depths sink my life, 

love and all. 
As, deaf to the warning that bids me 

arise, 
I swoon in the night of two glorious 

eyes. 



HER CROWNING GLORY. 

GLORY! Glory! Glory!" 
Chants the choir this Christmas 
morn. 
Glory! Glory! Glory! 

On the whispering breeze is borne. 
And I echo "Glory, glory," 

For I'm watching, during prayer, 
The glorious glory tangled up 
In Phyrne's Titian hair. 

51 



THAT OLD COAT SLEEVE OF 
MINE. 

(A soliloquy on an old dress coat.) 

THERE it hangs, alone, discarded. 
An old dress coat of ancient cut; 
Once it proudly graced a ballroom, 
Now its mission's over; but 
That sleeve — ah! as I watch it, 

Self to fancy I resign, 
And to memories that linger 
'Round that old coat sleeve of mine. 

I recall when first I wore it — 

'Twas a dinner — just a score 
Of gay old friends invited down 

To meet Miss Boggs, of Baltimore. 
I met her — ^took her into dinner — 

(Violet eyes, petite, divine) 
How her fingers seemed to nestle 

In that old coat sleeve of mine. 

We talked about the opera. 

The latest ball, the atmosphere; 
But her voice (I still can hear it) 

Seemed like music in my ear. 
Of that dinner I remember 

Not the cuisine or the wine; 
But the creamy silk that rustled 

'Gainst that old coat sleeve of mine. 

Like the foolish moth that hovers 

'Round the candle's flickering light, 
All unconscious of its danger. 

So I lingered near that night; 
Yes, I recollect I asked her 

For a waltz — ah ! 'twas divine, 
As about her dainty waist 

I put that old coat sleeve of mine. 

One evening 'neath the spreading palms 

We stood — in trembling accents I 
Told her, told her that I loved her, 

That my love would never die; 
Would she be my wife? Then, in her 

Eyes I saw my answer shine; 
And a little brown head rested 

On that old coat sleeve of mine. 



52 



AN IMPRESSION ON AN OLD 
COAT. 

AH, old coat, your day is over, 
Spiketails, we must say "adieu," 
I must hie me to some junk shop 
On your folds to raise a few. 
For my purse is lean and empty. 

There's a dryness in my throat; 
So on Poverty's grim altar 
I must offer you — old coat. 

Say, old coat, do you remember? 

("Yes," you'd answer, could you 
speak), 
When against that shiny shoulder 

Rested a rose-tinted cheek? 
Ah, the mem'ry of those moments, 

(Moments now somewhat remote), 
And that cheek's soft pressure make it 

Hard to part with you — old coat. 

Yes, old coat, 'tis hard to sell you — 

All my efforts are in vain; 
Not an old-clothes-man will take you, 

With that ancient grease paint stain. 



IN THE FALL. 

IN the fall the young man's fancy sadly 
turns to thoughts of how 
He's going to keep his little social 
ball a-rolling now. 
His summer girl's a hummer and he 

wants to keep her — yet 
His winter clothes are all in hock, he's 

over ears in debt; 
Oh ! the loving cup of Cupid's full of 

bitterness and gall, 
For the summer man who loves his 
summer sweetheart in the fall. 

In the fall ice cream and soda will, alas, 

no longer do; 
It's up to ale and oysters, and perhaps a 

Lobster, too. 
There's theaters and concerts and cotil- 

ions by the score. 
With football games and candy and 

chrysanthemums galore, 
But, there's still some satisfaction in re- 

memb'ring thro' it all 
That Mother Eve put Adam up against 

it in the fall. 

53 



LOVE'S INVENTORY. 

SOME people for the "lucre" love 
And seek to find a wife 
Who possesses the "mazuma" 
To support them all their life. 
But 'tis not for the glittering gold 

Nor for her worldly wealth 
I love my love — for all I love 
My love for is — herself. 

Yet, when of the situation 

I an inventory take 
I can't deny the fact that I 

Have captured quite a stake. 
And, if you'll bear in mind what I've 

Asserted just above, 
I'll confess some of the reasons why 

I love my love. 



I love her for the diamonds — 

That sparkle in her eyes 
And make their slightest glance appear 

A ray from Paradise. 
I love her for her ivory — ^brow 

And shoulders snowy white, 
And for her silver — voice that echoes 

In my ears to-night. 

I love her for her pearls — the teeth 

That gleam so bright at you. 
And for the ruby — lips that, laughing, 

Put the pearls on view; 
I love her for her gold — en hair, 

Her wealth — ^^of sun-kissed curls; 
But I love her most because she's worth 

A million — other girls. 



THE WINNER. 

PLAYING cards with Charlotte, 
'Neath the lamp's soft glow — 
Thought that I would teach her 
All she didn't know. 
She was a beginner, 

I a veteran old ; 
She declared she'd beat me — 
Most absurdly bold. 

Hands I held were good ones, 

Hers were very poor — 
That I'd beat her badly, 

Felt serenely sure. 
Alas, I was mistaken — 

When the game was done 
Somehow we held each other's hands 

And Charlotte won. 

54 



OUR CASTLES IN SPAIN. 

A HO ! for our castles in Spain, 
Sweetheart, 
Aho! for our castles in Spain — 
Tho' the days be dark and the nights 

be long 
And troubles troop bj^ in an endless 

throng 
There is happiness still if you'll 
harken my song. 
Aho! for our castles in Spain. 

Aho! for our castles in Spain, 

Sweetheart, 
Aho ! for our castles in Spain. 

The world is a wearisome round of 

strife 
Where sorrow is surging and sin is 

rife, 
So lets sail to the sunshine of love 
and life — 
Aho ! for our castles in Spain. 

Aho! for our castles in Spain, 

Sweetheart, 
Aho I for our castles in Spain. 

I love you, darling, but never a gleam 
Of hope I see of a joy supreme, 
So away I'll sail on the wings of a 
dream 
Away to my castle in Spain. 

Away to my castle in Spain, 

Sweetheart, 
Away to my castle in Spain, 

For there in my kingdom my soul's 

serene. 
The skies are blue and the fields are 

green ; 
I'm lord of it all, love, and you are 
my queen — 
Away in my castle in Spain. 



55 



ONLY A KISS. 

TOGETHER they stand in the door- 
way, 
Bidding each other goodby — 
Lingering there in the gloaming, 
The youth and the maiden shy. 
His arm her fair form encircles. 
Slightly upturned is her face, 
And he does precisely the same thing 
You would have done in his place. 

Only a kiss in the twilight. 

Only a tender caress — 
Only one moment of rapture 

As he folds her close to his breast. 
But on his heart is engraven 

That scene in figures of light — 
To the end of his days he'll remember 

The kiss he gave her that night. 

Light on the stair falls a footstep, 

Unheeded by youth or by maid; 
And thro' the gloaming an optic 

Upon the two lovers is laid — 
They, never thinking that papa 

Was getting dead onto all this — 
Were happy, so happy together 

As he on her lips pressed a kiss. 

Only a kiss in the twilight. 

Only a tender caress — 
Only one moment of rapture; 

What happened then you can guess. 
On his trousers' seat is engraven 

The soot where that "Trilby" did 
light- 
To the end of his life he'll remember 

The kiss he gave her that night. 



KISSES. 

WIS that a kiss is 
The acme of blisses ; 
And the Miss who dismisses 
As "horrid" all kisses 
Most truly remiss is — 
The reason just this is— 
There are kisses and — kisses. 

56 



AT DUQUESNE GARDEN. 

AS I fasten Phryne's skate 
Phryne sits serene, sedate; 
While I kneel with lowly mien 
Like a slave before a queen. 

Past us speeds the merry throng — 

Yet I linger over long; 

But who would not hesitate 
As they fasten Phryne's skate? 

Tho' there on the ice I kneel, 
Cold, somehow, I fail to feel ; 

But a glowing warmth as she 

Glances shyly down at me. 

And tho', swiftly in and out, 
Skaters whirl and twirl about. 
Circling gracefully around, 
To the music's rythmic sound. 

Still I positively staite 

There is no one can gyrate 
Like the wheels within my pate 
As I fasten Phryne's skate. 



SOMEBODY LOVES ME. 

SOMEBODY loves mc, 
And I know who! 
The darkling sky seems the bluest 
blue, 
The flowers seem gowned in a lovelier 

hue 
Since I've found out, and I know it's 
true — 

That somebody loves me — 

And I know who. 

Somebody loves me, 

I won't tell who! 
It wouldn't be the right thing to do — 
I worried myself for a month or two. 
She wouldn't tell me, so I won't tell 
you — 

But somebody loves me — 

And I know who. 

Somebody loves me, 

And I know who! 
Somebody's laughing eyes of blue 
Let just the tiniest gleam slip through — 
All by mistake, I think, don't you? 

But somebody loves me — 

And I know who. 

57 



A REFLECTION. 

A WEE, winsome bit of a woman — 
More fair than tongue hath told — 
With eyes as blue as turquoise — 
Brow bound with burnished gold. 

Formed like the Captive Venus, 

From her sun-kissed hair to her feet — 

Lips like dew-dipped roses, 

Perplexingly perfect — complete ; 

'Tis a picture, dear, of some one 

With face and form divine 
Who has come like a breath from 
heaven 

Into this heart of mine. 

The original? You would see her, 

You little inquisitive lass. 
Who has captured this old batchelor? 

Consult your looking glass. 



THE LOST LOVE. 

WHAT love of all loves is the 
dearest 
To the love-hungry, sad, hu- 
man heart? 
The sweet mother love, the sincerest? 
Or the love that will never depart? 

Or is it the love of our childhood? 

Or the love of a lost summer's day — 
The love we have wooed in the wild 
wood? 

Or the love that will live on for aye? 

Nay! The love of all loves shining 
clearest 
In our world-weary souls, tempest 
tossed — 
The love that is nearest and dearest 
Is the love that we love and have lost. 

58 



SOMETHING ABOUT HER. 

THERE was something about her ap- 
pealed to him — 
Something mystical, hazy, dim 
Seemed to her silken skirts to cling-— 
Some subtle, strange, untangible thing 
From her rust-red hair to her ankles 
trim. 

It may have been true or just a whim — 
Seemingly she was most mild and prim — ■ 
But floating around on Rumor's wing — 
There was something about her. 

But he didn't care — in the social swim 

Both reputations and waists are slim — • 

In the rose-hued realm where Folly's 

king 
"A past" is a deucedly proper thing — 
So, when she dreamily called him 
"Jim"— 
There was something about her. 



THEN AND NOW. 

HER wedding cards arrived to-day; 
As I read the dainty lines 
My fancy wanders backward and 
In the distant gloaming finds 
Us slowly strolling, hand in hand, 
'Neath the greenwood's spreading 
bough ; 
I the old, sweet story told — 
The other fellow tells it now. 

While I sit alone, to-night. 

Confirmed old bachelor to the last, 
Dreaming o'er the faded leaves 

In the album of the past — 
What is this? A tear-drop falling? 

The sunshine of my life I thought 
her — 
I could shed a sea of tears — 

For the luckless guy who got her. 

59 



WHEN SHE SAID "YES." 

WHEN she said "yes," 
You do not know, 
I'm sure you'd never guess 
The girl 1 mean; 

Yet of my heart that little "yes" 
Made her the queen 
And me her humble slave, 
I must confess — 
When she said "yes." 

When she said "yes," 
'Twas like a rose 
Within some wilderness. 

Its fragrance pure 
Exhaling everywhere — so "yes, 

From lips demure. 

Diffused within my heart 
True happiness — 
When you said "yes." 



TELL ME TRULY, TILLY. 

TILLY is twenty years old to-day 
(She told me herself, so I 
know) — 
Twenty short summers have passed 
away 
In the autumn's golden glow. 
In the whispering breeze's murmurings 

The news to the leaves is told, 
And they laugh back in answer — 
"Tilly is twenty years old." 

Tilly is twenty years old to-day — 

She told me herself — but I know 
A thing or two about Till}^ old girl, 

That the family records show. 
"Born in '69, Matilda," 

They read in letters bold, 
So if 3^ou believe for a minute 

Tilly is twenty — you're sold. 

09 



T 



HOW GOSSIP GOES. 

HIRTY women, all told, 

Were at Mrs. Van Talkem's tea, 
Telling the trouble of every one 
Who happened to absent be. 



Said Mrs. I. Knowet to Mrs. Dotel, 
"If you'll promise you'll never repeat 

What I say, I'll tell you a secret — 
A scandal that's simply a treat 

"Mrs. Soandso did such and such, 
"Etcetera and so on, you know; 
"I'm not sure it's true, and I've told 
only you — 
"Don't repeat it, dear. Well, I must 
go." 

So she went, and after she'd gone. 
If you looked in you'd behold 

Remaining at Mrs. Van Talkem's tea 
Twenty-nine women — all told. 



6i 



"Jey lDveam(/^' 



55 



JES DREAMIN'. 

JES dreamin' — 
'Thout a thought 
Of a lot of things I ought 
To get done; 
But jes' 'low me to acquaint 
Y' with the bloomin' fac', I ain't 
Worryin' none. 

People ask me what I 'spect 

To become, 
An' I kind o' guess I'll be 

Jes' a bum; 
Somehow I can't resurrect 

No excuse — 
Jes' a habit like 'ith me — 

What's the use? 

Jes' dreamin' 

All the time ; 
Life and work don't seem to rhyme 

Somehow 'ith me; 
While the rest the world's a schemin' 

Lemme be — 

Jes dreamin'. 

Dreamin' lemme live my day 
(A little work, a little play), 
An' 'nen lemme pass away — 
Jes' dreamin'. 



65 



DID YOU EVER STOP TO 
THINK? 

DID you ever stop to think, as you 
worry 'long Life's road, 
What's the use o' all your growlin* 
and a grumblin' at your load? 
This here ain't such a awful world to 

live in, after all; 
There's lots o' things to take the place 

o' bitterness and gall. 
The sunshine 'ats a floatin' all around 

'ud make you blink 
If you'd only turn an' face it — 
Did you ever stop to think? 

The trouble is 'at people start to worry 

jes* a bit, 
An' then before they know it they get 

kind o' used to it, 
An' start to spread their cares around, 

ain't never satisfied; 
If they've got no one 'ats dyin* they 

rake up the ones 'ats died. 
They don't seem comfortable less 'ey 

stand on sorrow's brink 
An' cuss the world an' worry — 
Did you ever stop to think? 

Did you ever stop to think the sun's a 

shinin' over all, 
That this world's no sphere o' sorrow 

tho' it ain't no golden ball, 
That it's full o' joy and gladness as a 

pansy bed with faces, 
An' all you got to do is jes' to dodge 

the gloomy places; 
Jes' hustle to_ be happy an' you'll find the 

missin' link 
That's connectin' earth an' heaven — 
Did you ever stop to think? 



66 



w 



WHAT'S THE USE? 

HATS's the use o' worryin' 

Let the world jog on; 
Things 'at's comin's comin*. 
Things 'at's gone is gone. 



'Fore you was a peepin' 
The earth was rollin' 'round 

Jes' the way it will be 
When ye're under ground. 

What's the use o' worryin'? 

It will come all right, 
'Round you seems the darkest 

When ye're in the light. 

Take things as you find 'em, 

An* jes be satisfied; 
The man 'at wanted everything 

Was wantin' when he died. 

What's the use o' worryin'? 

Be happy where ye're at; 
Don't bother 'bout the future — 

God's a-runnin' that. 



67 



THE END OF THE WORLD. 

IT came with a horrible rumbling roar 
In the deathly still of the night; 
A crash and all was chaos — 
And we saw through the blinding 
light 
The awful fear on each human face 

Turned heavenward to implore 
One minute's grace — a minute's space, 
And all breathing life was o'er. 

The mountains crumbled into the sea, 

Whose waves surged higher, higher; 
Till the earth was wrapped, from pole to 
pole. 

In a lurid lake of fire. 
And the world, its little allotted course 

In the mighty universe run, 
A sizzling, seething ball of flame, 

Dashed downward toward the sun. 

And 'way out on another planet, 
In the firmament, gleaming afar, 

A little child cried : "Oh, mamma ! look ! 
See the pretty shooting star." 



DEATH'S HARVEST. 

DEATH wound 'round his winding 
sheet, 
And srniled a sepulchral smile, 
As broken bodies on mangled feet 
Marched past him in endless file. 

From the bright Before to the black Be- 
yond, 
As Death hummed funereal bars. 
Marched ever onward the gory shades 
From the tracks of the trolley cars. 
68 



THE OLD, OLD, DAYS. 

THE old, old days, 
The old, old days — 
How far we have drifted adown the 
stream 
Of Life — where sorrows and troubles 

teem, 
And, oh! how dear in the distance 
seem — 

The old, old days. 

I wonder, do you remember, too. 
Back o'er the years that so swiftly flew, 
Back to the hours of our childhood 

plays 
To the laughter and tears of the old, 
old days? 

Tears and laughter and laughter and 

tears 
Mingled, as now, in the bygone years, 
But the laughter still in my memory 

stays, 
While the tears dried soon in the old, 
old days. 

The old, old days, 

The old, old days, 
The days we wished we were grown up 

men, 
But now we know we were happiest 

then — 
And oh ! how we wish we could live 

again 

The old, old days. 



69 



"WHAT'S THE USE O' ANY- 
THING?— NOTHIN*." 

WE'RE hustled into this weary- 
world 
Without knowing why or how; 
If any one asked us our consent 
It's slipped our memorj' now; 
But after we're here we have to work 

And grumble and growl and sigh, 
Just to be able to draw our breath — 
Then all we can do is — Die. 

Some strive onward with might and 
main, 
And finally reach the top; 
But the struggle is really an awful 
strain, 
With a horrible distance to drop; 
And after the battle is fought and won 

And we stand on a pedestal high, 
We may manage to stick 'till our sands 
are run — 
Then all we can do is — Die, 

But what if we, somehow, can't strug- 
gle up 

And are left with the mass below — 
Happy in getting our meat and sup. 

And smile at the world's vain show? 
What, after all, do we win, my boy, 

When for laurels and wreath we try? 
E'en gold and glory at last will cloy — 

Then all we can do is — Die. 

So give us something to eat and drink, 

With a good soft place to sleep — 
Some clothes to cover our nakedness, 
And the wealth and the fame will 
keep, 
Just crown our cup with a woman's 
love — 
A love that no gold can buy — 
And we'll live our day in our own little 
way — 
Then all we can do is — Die. 



70 



BUBBLES. 

HOW oft when little children we 
Would sit and watch in ecstasy 
The shimmering, glistening skin 
of soap 
Filled full of wind — ah! childhood's 
dope — 

Bubbles. 

And as thro' life we plod and strive, 
"Dead lucky" that we're still alive, 
That beacon light and anchor — Hope — 
Becomes our substitute for soap 
Bubbles. 

But wind, when it has done its worst. 
Can do but one thing — ^that's burst, 
Bust or blow up — use your own term — 
Life, Hope, Wealth, Power — and then 
the Worm — 

Bubbles. 



7t 



THE LAST WORD. 

«<| AM dying, Egypt! Dying!" 
I But no poet's theme extols 

Cleopatra's final finish — 
Her soliloquy on souls: — 

"As a Christian soul most orthodox 

apologies I'll spare — 
Historians have writ me down as slight- 
ly — well — ^bizarre ; — 
But, as I'm now about to leave, be- 
fore I go I'll state 
Some of the souls upon this earth I 
must confess I hate; — 

"These little souls, anaemic souls, souls 

that are down and out — 
Puerile souls too cheap for Egypt's 

queen to talk about, 
Ingrain souls and crossgrain souls, 

souls that are warped and split — 
Souls that preach — but when it comes 

to practice — aber nit! — 
Self-centered souls, long-winded souls, 

souls that are all puffed up — 
Souls that inhabit anything from proud 

Caesar to a pup!" 

Relieved of this the asp she grasped — 

No wonder that it bit her — 
And to the snake this sigh she gasped 

As life and love both quit her: — 

"I was an atom among a bunch 

Of a billion or more, I guess. 
And what, in the aeon of ages, Asp, 

Is an atom more or less? 
An atom is only an atom — 

Yet e'en among atoms I ween 
There are atoms and atoms and atoms — 

But not every atom's a — Queen!" 



M 



MAN'S WANTS. 

AN wants but little here below, 
And what he wants, I wot, 
Is just a little more, you know, 
Than the little that he's got. 



And when he gets that little, 
Why he wants a little yet, 

And the little he yet wants is just 
The little he can't get. 

T2, 



AN OLD COAL FIRE. 

LET poets trill their triolets about the 
olden days, 
The dear old-fashioned people 
with the queer old-fashioned 
ways ; 
Let them warble of the blue with 
which our boyhood skies were 
cast 
And all the other hazy, mazy pleasures 
of the past ; 
But listen to your Uncle while he tunes 

his little lyre 
And sings a little sonnet of an 

Old 
Coal 
Fire. 

We remember all about "the coffee 

mother used to make," 
Our "happy days down on the farm" 
were great, and no mistake; 
We keep in loving memory that same 

"ole swimmin' hole," 
And "attic window," into which the 
"sunshine" always stole. 
But, just between ourselves, you know, 

the thing I most desire 
Is to sit and poke the bubbles in an 

Old 
Coal 
Fire. 

These registers and heaters, with their 

steamin', steamin', steamin', 
Are good enough for heating, but no use 
at all for dreamin'; 
It certainly would take a most excep- 
tional discemer 
To see "old-fashioned faces" in a 
"Sim's Asbestos Burner." 
The "electro-plated yule log" doesn't, 

somehow, just inspire 
Like the warm and mellow glowing of an 

Old 
Coal 
Fire. 

So away with all new-fangled apparat- 
uses to heat 
That don't provide a good old-fashioned 
fender for the feet; 
Give us back the happy days they sing 

about in songs 
When our "Lares and Penates" were 
the poker and the tongs — 
For while the meter's metin' and the gas 

bill's climbin' higher 
I certainly do hanker for an 

Old 
Coal 
Fire. 
73 



DID YOU? 

DID you ever think through this 
long, lean life, 
Of the difference 'tween Theory 
and Fact? 
Of the wonderful theories we think over 
night; 
And the dum foolish way that we act? 



LET US! 

LET us lend and spend and give 
away. 
And die a pauper's death some 
day (?) 

Let us slave and save and pinch each 

cent, 
And who at last will care where we 

went (?) 

The rich man leaves all he was worth, 
But the poor man leaves this bloomin' 
earth — 

And his personal assets — a smile and a 

song— 
As far as I know he takes them along. 



PERHAPS. 

(By the Cynic.) 

KNOW thyself and love thy fellow- 
men ! 
Thus shalt thou live thy full three 
score and ten; 
To be well — do well — then the cool 

sweet sod 
May yield to thee its secret of thy God. 

7Z 



THE OLD MILL POND. 

SAY, fellers, do you recollect the 
place we used to skate? 
The mill pond in the hollow where 
the "gang" would congregate 
In the good, old-fashioned winter 
when the wind your ears would 
nip, 
And we had a lot more winter and 
a whole lot less o' grippe? 
Do you recollect the bonfire we would 

build upon the bank 
And the row of red-cheeked girls a-sit- 
tin* gigglin' 'long a plank. 
While we fellers strapped the skates 

upon their dainty little feet, 
And a stolen glimpse of ankle made 
our happiness complete? 
Between the past and present there's no 

clearer, dearer bond 
Than the memory of evenings on that 

Old 
Mill 
Pond. 

This skatin' in a "Garden," 'neath the 

bright electric light — 
With a band a-playin' ragtime, is the 
proper thing, all right; 
But I ain't so much for skatin' 'round 

a circle "for the price," 
With an artificial female on your arti- 
ficial ice. 
As for the way we did it in the winters 

long ago, 
When the trees spread out their queer, 
fantastic shadows on the snow. 
There was a tiny, mittened hand I 

used to slyly squeeze 
As in unison we glided in the shadows 
of the trees — 
The only light we needed was the old 

moon up beyond 
Shinin' down and kind o' smilin' on that 

Old 
Mill 
Pond. 



75 



PREDESTINATION. 

THE little toy soldier stood on the 
shelf, 
Talking away to his little tin self— 

"Tho' my coat's red paint and my trous- 
ers new 
I'm certainly feeling an indigo blue — 

"To-day I'm worth money — but life's no 

joke — 
The day after Christmas I'm bound to 

'go broke/" 



CHRISTMAS IN THE HEART. 

THERE'S Christmas in the faces of 
the people that we meet, 
There's Christmas in the toy-loaded 
windows on the street, 
There's Christmas in the laughter of the 

bundle-burdened throng, 
As with a Christmas greeting they go 
hurrying along. 

And if, perchance, your Christmas isn't 
all that it should be 

(With a home, of Yuletide youngsters 
making merry 'round a tree) ; 

If your Christmas gifts have somehow 
been sidetracked along the way. 

And all you have's the memory of a by- 
gone Christmas day; 

Let your lips still sing the anthem, 

"Peace on earth, good will to men" — 
Lift your soul above your sorrow — let 

yourself be borne again 
On the spirit wings of Christmas from 

your dead ideals apart, 
And your Christmas will be Christmas 

if there's Christmas in the heart. 

76 



THE LENGTH AND BREADTH. 

LET us live the length and breadth 
of life, 
And live it long and broad — 
We were only pushed into this puerile 
strife 
By the will of a wilsome God; 
And whether we're wrong or whether 
we're right 
No one but this God can tell ; 
While the sum of substance of all your 
fright 
Is a fable of heaven and hell. 

So let us live in this limelight age — 

In the lime light money's glare — 
Let us live with only the fools to do 

And only the fools to dare — 
But whether we're dared or whether 
we're done 

In this crazily strenuous strife — 
Let us each of us — all of us — every one 

Love the length and the breadth of 
life. 

From the depths beneath to the heights 

above — 
The length and the breadth of life is — 

Love. 



SUFFICIENT. 

SIT and tell yourself stories 
As the day drifts into night; 
Sit and tell yourself stories 
And dream of things coming right. 

If you are rudely awakened 

(Your stories not what they seem) 

And things come wrong — 'stead of 
right- 
All right— you've had your dream. 

77 



"Amv/v^il^" 



TRAILING ARBUTUS. 

ALONG a winding footpath, 
Deep in a tangled glen, 
I sometimes strolled in silence, 
Far from the haunts of men. 
'Til once, as dreamily musing 
Beneath that sylvan bower, 
Peeping pink from the faded leaves 
I saw a fairy flower. 

Slowly I stoop to pick it,^ 

When lo! to my surprise 
A wealth of heavenly beauty 

Nestles before my eyes ; 
And thro' the silent forest 

Its perfume soft and rare 
Floats like a breath from heaven 

Upon the fragrant air. 

So along life's pathway 

Often we blindly go. 
Seeing only the faded leaves 

And moss, and never know 
Until we delve beneath them, 

And there bursts upon the air 
All the beauty and the fragrance 

God has hidden there. 



8i 



THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 

THE soldier lies in the muddy bed 
Of the trenches the whole night 
long, 
He hears the song of the speeding lead, 
And knows there is death in the song. 
He fights for the flag 'til his eyes grow 
dim — 
For his country he gives his life; 
Yet our keenest sympathy's not for him, 
But goes out to the soldier's wife. 

Not for her is the battle cry 

And the fierce red joy of the fight; 
But lonely to lie with a smothered sigh 

Thro' the long, still gloom of the 
night. 
Not for her is the onward charge 

And the glory^ and glare of the strife; 
But to watch and wait at a lonely gate 

Is the task of the soldier's wife. 

To watch and wait with a burning 
brain — 
With her love pent up in her breast; 
While her nerves beat wildly a dull re- 
frain 
To her aching heart's unrest. 
No flag floats gayly above her head; 

She hears not the drum nor the fife; 
She watches the sun in the West sink 
red, 
And sighs — does the soldier's wife. 

So sing, if 3'ou will, of the soldier brave, 

And the glorious deeds he has done ; 
Weep at the thought of a lonely grave 

'Way out 'neath the setting sun ; 
But sadder far than that strip of sod 

Is the sight of a broken life; 
So stop and send up a prayer to God — 

A praj'er for the soldier's wife. 



LOVE'S DWELLING. 

SHE married him for his title, 
He married her for her gold; 
'Twas a wedding of wealth and 
fashion, 
But Love stood out in the cold. 

No family tree Love boasted, 

No ducats nor jewels rare. 
His attire would be most "outre" 

'Mid the royal raiment there. 

So out in the cold Love waited, 

Out in the twilight dim — 
While Mammon and Pedigree feasted 

There was no room for Him. 

They went to live in a palace. 

With turrets towered above, 
But tho' oft He knocked at the portal, 

They were never "at home" to Love. 

Other guests were welcomed — 

Trooping in by the score. 
They jostled each other on entering. 

But brushed by Love at the door. 

There was Envy, Hatred and Malice, 

Who one by one went in, 
Followed by jaundiced Jealousy, 

Then softly by crept Sin. 

But still Love patiently waited, 
Thro' many a night and day, 

Thinking to slip in somehow 
When the stork would come that way. 

But the stork was barred at the portal, 
The butler "good form" stood there, 

So seeing his last chance vanish, 
Love gave up in despair. 

Now near to the princely palace 

There nestled a cabin poor; 
And Love, grown weary a-waiting, 

Softly knocked at that door. 

Tho' only a lowly cottage, 
'Twas home to a maiden fair. 

Who smiled at the little stranger 
And made Love welcome there. 

Then came a youth a-courting 
The flower of his heart's desire, 

And Love and the youth and the maiden 
Sat gathered about the fire. 



83 



The palace stands bleak and empty, 

Its ruins rise bare and lone, 
The bride and the bridegroom have 
vanished 

And gone— ask the winds that moan. 

O'er all hangs an awful stillness; 

The only sound heard there 
Is the hollow fall of the footsteps 

Of the erstwhile guests on the stair. 

But over the door of the cottage 
Great clusters of roses cling, 

While ever amid the fragrance 
The voices of children ring. 

The palace stands bleak and empty, 

Alone and in ruins, but 
God's peace hangs over the hovel, 

For Love dwells still in the hut. 



THE SMILE OF A MOTHER. 



T 



HE smile of a mother! 

Ah! world in thy search 
For the "why" and the "what"— 
thy creed or thy church; 
Why not forever thy restlessness 
smother — 

In the smile of a mother? 

The "why"?— it is there! 

You know it as well 
As your clergy-taught story of heaven 

and hell. 
The "what"?— is to be in the baby 

that lies 
At the breast of the mother — it's 

sweet, sleepy eyes 
May see far beyond — baby fingers un- 
curled 
Will point in the future the way of the 

world — 
Man's world; God himself points the 

path to the other 

In the smile of a mother. 

84 



COWARD JOE. 

JOE was a coward ! Yes ; 
Thar warn't no doubt o' that — 
He was a scar't of his shadder, 
An' many a time I've sat 
An' watched the fellers a guying him 

An' callin' him names, ye know. 
An' he'd take it all like an innercent 
lamb — 
Fer there warn't no fight in Joe. 

But ye can't always tell by appearance, 

An' sometimes ye'll find in the end 
'At looks is powerful deceivin' — 

An' sometimes, I'll tell ye, friend, 
Ye'll find 'at ther heart 'at's beatin' 

In a so-called coward's breast 
Is braver, an' stronger, an' truer 

Than under the soldier's vest. 

So, when yeller fever struck the town, 
That fearful scourge o' man, 

Spreadin' disease an' death in it's path 
As it swept across the Ian'; 

Brave men paled with awful fear 
An' fled — leavin' children an' wives 

'Neath the ghastly folds o' the yeller 
flag- 
Fled to the hills fer ther lives. 

An' where in this hour of peril. 

Where then was the "coward Joe?" 
Did he forsake his darlin' wife? 

Did he leave his babe? Ah! No! 
He stood all night by a lonely cot. 

Where a dyin' woman lay, 
An' watched the life of his sweet young 
wife 

Ebb out at ther dawn o' day. 

His babe soon follered its mother. 

An' Joe was left alone; 
But he stuck to his post, 'mid ther dyin' 
and sick. 

As if they 'ad all been his own; 
An' when by the fearful plague 

He, too, was stricken down, 
He died with a smile upon his face — 

He'd won a martyr's crown. 



85 



THAT OLD-FASHIONErr 
WHISTLE. 

IN his big easy rocker where mother 
has left him, 
Left him and softly tiptoed up to 
bed, 
The old man sits dozing and drowsily 
dreaming — 
Dreaming of years that have long 
ago fled. 
And as his thoughts wander back to his 
childhood, 
Back o'er the dim, hazy pathway of 
years 
A strain soft and low of an old-fash- 
ioned measure 
Is wafted by memory back to his ears. 
'Tis just a few bars of most fantastic 
music, 
But his mouth puckers up in a sweet 
smile of joy, 
As back from the past comes that old- 
fashioned whistle — 
The whistle he whistled when he was 
a boy. 

He sees the old mill and the swimming 
hole near it 
Where at that whistle he'd slip on the 
sly; 
He remembers that tune, as it came 
thro' the twilight, 
To wake him at dawn on the Fourth 
of July. 
Now, drifting onward, he sees the old 
maple 
Shading the home of a long ago Love, 
Where he would stop as he passed in the 
moonlight — 
(Stop 'neath a window half opened 
above). 
Then, tho' with heart in his mouth, he 
would whistle, 
And nothing on earth could his hap- 
piness cloy. 
As there came soft and low in the still- 
ness his answer — 
The whistle he whistled when he was 
a boy. 



86 



The old man gets up from his big easy 
rocker, 
A smile on his face and his eyes 
twinkling bright, 
And as if bent on some dark depreda- 
tion 
Softly opens the door and goes out in 
the night; 
Gently he slides 'round beneath mother's 
window. 
Half open now, as it used to be ther^ 
And in the moonlight his old face he 
puckers 
And whistles that old-fashioned whis- 
tle again. 
Now holding his breath the old man 
stops and listens — 
Then his old figure shakes as he 
chuckles with joy. 
As once more he hears the dear old- 
fashioned whistle, 
The whistle she whistled when he was 
a boy. 



TOYS. 



(A Christmas Thought.) 

CHRISTMAS with its joys and toys 
Was only meant for little boys — 
Their's to wake on Christmas 
morn, 
Heedless of the Christ-child born; 
And with merry laugh and play 
Greet the gladsome Christmas day. 

But when sleep her wings has spread 
Over each tired, tousled head — 
Toys forgotten, broken, gone — 
Only dreams until the dawn; 
Then perhaps we grozvn-ups may 
Give a thought to Christmas day. 

What to us has Christmas been, 
Man to man — here deep within? 
Then the timely truth we read, 
Heedless of the Christ-Man's creed — 
We are only little boys, 
Trading away each other's toys. 

87 



GONE! 

WHERE are the names of yester- 
day? 
'Mong the attic's treasures I 
searched last night, 
Bringing once more to the candle 
light 
Magazines, dusty and covered with 

mould — 
Some of them barely ten short years 
old; 
Yet in their pages stood many a name, 
Illum'ed by the calcium light of 
fame — 
Many a name that to-day's forgot — 
In the press of the present we know 
them not. 

Where will be the names of to-day? 
When a few short years have drifted 

by? 
A winter's cold, a summer's sky — 
Some dozen drinks, some scanty meals. 
While a tenth of a century past us 
steals, 
And when those next ten years roll 

'round, 
Where will the names of To-day be 
found? 
Yea, where will be the names of To- 
day? 
Gone — with names of yesterday. 



A GRAVE. 

DARK is the night— 
The waves dash white. 
Their feathery tops of foam; 
When thro' the gloom 
The huge sides loom 
Of the Portland speeding home. 

A sudden shock — 
The wild winds mock 

The pitiful cries to save. 
A hand snow white 
Gleams once in the night. 

And the sea rolls on — a grave. 



A LULLABY. 

THE moon am a climbin' an' the 
stars am' a shinin', 
Hush a-bye, pickaninny, hush a- 
bye, 
Youh daddy 's gone a huntin' foh a cot- 
ton tail buntin', 

Hush a-bye-bye-bye, hush a-bye. 
He'll catch it, may be; so now go to 

sleep ma baby. 
While you'h mammy puts the possum on 

to fry. 
And when you wakes up, honey, you 
will hab a little bunny. 
Hush a-bye-bye-bye, hush a-bye. 

REFRAIN. 

r 

Hush a-bye, pickaninny, hush a-bye- 
bye-bye, 
Hush a-bye-bye, hush a-bye. 
The southern sun's at rest, softly sleep 
on mammy's breast. 
Hush a-bye, pickaninny, hush a-bye. 

The tree-toad am a callin' an the shad- 
ows am a fallin' — 

Hush a-bye, pickaninny, hush-a- 
bye. 
The wind am softly sighin' and the sum- 
mer day is dyin' — 

Hush a-bye-bye-bye, hush a-bye. 
The fairies am a standin' at the dream 
ship's little landin' 
To sail with you away up in the 
sky — 
'Mong the winky wunks to play all the 
night 'til break o' day, 

Hush a-bye-bye-bye, hush a-bye. 

REFRAIN. 

Hush a-bye, pickaninny, hush a-bye- 
bye-bye, 
Hush a-bye-bye, hush a-bye. 
The southern sun's at rest, softly sleep 
on mammy's breast, 
Hush a-bye, pickaninny, hush a-bye. 



Sy 



THE MESSENGER. 

IN mortal illness he lay trembling 
there, 
Noting with aching brain and dumb 

despair 
The feeble fluttering of his fleeting 

breath ; 
Waiting the coming of grim-visaged 
Death. 
An awful stillness filled the darkened 

room, 
He felt Death's presence in the gathered 
gloom ; 
One moment of an agonizing fear — 
A gasp — the dreaded messenger was 
near — 
His time had come, he knew. He turned 

his head 
In terror, and lo! there beside the bed 
His angel mother stood — upon her 

face 
A smile of heavenly peace — and from 
the place 
She led him as a voice said "He is dead." 



TO A PAIR OF GLAD EYES. 

GLADYS GLADEYES, they have 
named you 
With your open orbs of blue. 
Gazing out in childish wonder 

On the world — ah, sweet, that you 
May forever see the sunshine 

And may never know the woe, 
That forever and forever 
Stalks about the world below. 

May your glad eyes ever glisten, 

As they do to-day, my pet, 
When you sail Life's sea of sorrow. 

And thro' all, dear, may they yet 
Ever look with joy of childhood 

To the clouds' bright silver side — 
Ever seeing but the sunlight. 

Seeing life, love, glorified. 

90 



A NEW YEAR'S REVERIE. 



AS we sit by the dying embers, 
At the close of the dying year, 
Dreaming of dead Decembers ; 
Hopes dead, but to memory dear; 
From out the surrounding gloaming 

A ghastly gathering comes 
In time to a rj-thmic moaning — 

Like the beating of muffled drums; 
And we sit and silently shudder 

At the hideous retinue. 
As slowly by file the spectral shades 
Of "the things we were going to do." 

Ye gods! will they never cease coming? 

Out, out from that corner dim; 
The score of our failures summing — 

This army of phantoms grim? 



Nay! not 'til the deeds of the future 

Have buried the ghosts of the past, 
And the sum of the years shall compute 
your 

Debt unto life at the last, 
So let us be up and be doing, 

At the dawn of the century new. 
With a hopeful heart to accomplish a 
part 

Of "the things we are going to do." 



THE MAN WITH THE LIGHT. 

YOU ask, "Who was it in that brain 
blew out 
The light and left it as a darkened 
cell?" 
But what of him! The man within 

whose brain 
The light is burning like a blazing hell — 
A gleaming searchlight on his inner 

self- 
Searing his soul — revealing unto him 
The awful failure of a human life. 
What of this man? Created by God's 

grace — 
Who cannot look his fellow in the face. 
And knows that he has vet to face his 
God? 

91 



GOODBY! GOODBY! 

" /<-> OODBY !" "Goodby !" 

I y A happy laugh, 

^-^ The words flung to the wind 

like chaff; 
'Tis but a parting for a day, 
With buoyant hearts and spirits g;ay — 
A kiss, a wave, a happy cry — 
"Goodby!" "Goodby!" 

"Goodby!" "Goodby!" 

In earnest tone — 
One of the two is left alone, 
The other out into the world 
Is going forth, his flag unfurled, 
The bitter fight of life to try — 
"Goodby!" "Goodby!" 

"Goodby!" "Goodby!" 

The voice is low, 
A human heart is wrung with woe ; 

Death's shadow falls across a cot — 
The fight is o'er — the battle's fought — 
The words come in a breaking sigh — 

"Goodby!" "Goodby!" 



LILIES 'ROUND THE CROSS. 

LILIES twined 'round the cross — 
The emblem of Easter morn — 
The cross, Christ's death's in- 
signia — 
The lilies — of Christ new-bom. 
Typifying the triumph of life 

And love over Calvary's loss. 
The wakening world on Elaster 
Twines lilies around the cross. 

In the wildering maze of life 

Each has his cross to bear, 
And yours may seem so heavy 

That you'd fain sink down in despair; 
But turn with a smile to the sunlight, 

Away from your trouble or loss, 
And singing, in spite of your sorrow, 

Twine lilies around your cross. 

92 



"NON HODIE, SED SEMPER." 

(In Memoriam Henry B. Hyde.) 

HE planted a seed by the wayside, 
And planted his heart in the 
seed; 
And he waited and watched its growing, 
And tended its every need. 

The sprout sprang upward and flour- 
ished, 
'Till at last did the planter see 
A mighty oak, where the seed was sown, 
And his heart was the heart of the 
tree. 

Then the planter's task was finished; 

The gaunt, grim reaper spoke: 
Called his soul to his God — his clay to 
the sod, 

But 'his heart beats on in the oak. 



93 



THE THINGS I USED TO KNOW. 



I KNOW a lot of things to-day I 
didn't use to know; 
I know the deadly currents of the 

world's dread undertow; 
I know life's bitter lessons — know 

them all from A to Z — 
Learned in life's school of sorrow — 
school of sin and misery — 
Oh! would that I could but forget the 

great tide's ebb and flow 
And learn again the long- forgotten 
Things I used to know. 

I used to know the valley where the 
rarest violets grew — 

The woodland where arbutus first peep- 
ed shyly up to view; 
I used to know a big hole where the 

chubs were sure to bite, 
The places 'long the old creek where 
the bottom was all right — 

Where Mrs. Catbird had her nest half 
hidden in the brush; 

The Bob-white's cheery whistle — the low 
warble of the thrush; 

I used to know the buds and birds, the 

rocks and woods and trees — 
The way to find the honey-hoarded 

storehouse of the bees ; 
I used to know each sylvan nook, each 

dainty flower that grew; 
But sweeter, dearer far than all the 

other things I knew 
Was that no matter where about the 

fields I chanced to roam 
I knew my little Mother's face would 

smile a welcome home. 

I know a lot of things to-day I would I 

never knew — 
I know my little Mother's gone beyond 
the heaven's blue — 
I know the world, man's world, too 
well — 'twas God's world I knew 
then, 
God's world that I've forgotten — now 
I know my fellowmen ; 
And oh! I would I could forget— forget 

it all and go 
Back to God's world and learn again 
The things I used to know. 



94 



A 



JUST A WORD. 

DAINTY rose, diffusing 
It's perfume soft and rare, 
Imbues with heaven's fragrance 
The cold and empty air. 

Just so a word of kindness 
Will oftentimes impart 

A gleam of heavenly happiness 
To some sad empty heart. 



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